On The Bridge
by soavezefiretto
Summary: A midnight conversation, years before Voyager. Someone is lost. A life is saved. Something begins. ParisJaneway, strictly friendship. Please R&R.


Disclaimer: Not for profit, no infringement intended.

Title: On The Bridge

Author: soavezefiretto

Pairing: Paris/Janeway, strictly friendship

Summary: A midnight conversation, years before Voyager. Someone is lost. A life is saved. Something begins.

A/N: I'm beginning to wonder if this fondness of mine to make Voyager characters suicidal is something I should worry about... I tried to make it as much in character as I could. Comments are always welcome.

Blond, blue-eyed, straight Tom, the boy who was destined to reach the stars. Everything was going to work out for him, how could it not. With those looks, that smile. And it was genuine, the smile, it came from the heart, washed over his eyes, his face, his whole body. He irradiated. He was innocent. He was a miracle, that's what he was.

He didn't know that, of course. So few people did, really. They just took him for granted. Day after day and year after year, and no one noticed as this darkness grew inside him. It wasn't anybody's fault. It was there, that's all. He didn't pay much attention to it. Life was still good, except now he sometimes needed to throw stuff against the wall, and get so drunk he couldn't remember who he was. But no one needed to know.

Then some people died, and it was his fault. Tom didn't understand it at all. What did it mean? He pondered that, and came to the conclusion that it didn't mean anything. That was the big secret. That was why he needed to get drunk, that was why everyone's eyes seemed dead. Now he was in on it, now he knew.

It hurt so bad and so deep that he couldn't breathe. Everything went out of focus, the ground sank away from under his feet, and life became a blur of naked women and alcohol and blood and anger for a very long time.

One night he found himself leaning over a bridge, and there was blood dripping from his wrists because he'd cut them open. In novels, people claim there comes a point when you don't feel anything anymore, and suddenly you see so clearly, you know it's the right thing to do, the only thing, and it's such a relief. It was nothing like that for him. It hurt, it hurt like a motherfucker, and the pain in his chest that never went away was worse than ever. He was not brave. He just wanted to die. If there had been another way he'd have done anything, anything at all. But he couldn't think of anything else. Maybe he was too drunk, but what did it matter? He'd been drunk yesterday, he would be drunk tomorrow.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" A voice behind him. It made him think of the wire of an instrument, a cello maybe. You think strange things when you've just cut your wrists.

"Yeah. Beautiful."

"Out for a midnight walk?"

"It's not midnight."

"You're right about that. It's four a.m."

She walks up to the bridge and leans into the railing a couple of meters from where he's standing. He can make out her silhouette, she has long hair, but he can't see if she's blond or a brunette. Her face is in shadows.

"The sun will be up soon."

He hadn't thought about that. He didn't plan to see another morning, but other people would, he realised. This woman, out for a walk at four a.m., would maybe come back from wherever she was going, and see his body floating in the river below. Someone would have to fish him out of the river, someone would have to see his bloated, pasty blue face. This was an uncomfortable thought, and he disliked her for bringing it to him.

"Don't you have anywhere to be?" he snapped.

"Sure. But they can wait."

"Well, I can't." He turned to leave, but had to lean back and grip the railing. He was dizzy.

"You're bleeding."

"None of your fucking business."

"True."

"Look, why don't you do me a favour and just move along, ok? I really didn't come here for conversation."

"I understand."

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry, but I can't go."

He sighed. In a moment he would have to sit down, he had lost too much blood and his legs wouldn't hold him much longer. That was the moment he'd chosen to tip himself over into the water, but he didn't want to do it with her looking on. Maybe it was because he had talked to her. That had been a mistake. She was a person now. And that steely voice of hers - he had the most irrational idea that she could pull him out of the water with that voice alone.

"Yes you can. You have to..."

"You are hurt."

"You said it was none of your business."

"And it isn't. But I'm a meddler."

"What?"

"I am not going to let you bleed to death here, and I am not going to let you jump over this bridge either. I'm sorry, I know you hate me for this. But I can't."

As if the situation wasn't embarrassing enough, that's when he started to cry. Surprised, he almost choked on a sob, and finally slid to the ground. He hadn't known there were still tears in him. She sat down beside him. She was calm, but he sensed a tension. He still hadn't seen her face, and from the way she moved he could tell she couldn't see his either. He was just a vague form to her. A form with bleeding wrists, shaking uncontrollably and slumped on the concrete of the worst part of a town with no name on a planet with no name at four a.m. of the day he'd chosen as his last.

She leant in closer, put a small hand on his shoulder. She could move worlds with that hand. Anyone could have felt that. Anyone...

"What's your name?"

"... What?"

"Your name! What is your name, son?"

I am not your son. I am no one's son. I was a son once. Once... but not now. I will show you, I will...

"No, you can't go to sleep now! Tell me your name!"

"Dad..."

"Okay, I am going to call the medics now. I am sorry, but I cannot let you die here."

"I don't... don't want to die..."

"I am glad to hear that."

"Dad... I'm sorry..."

"Do you want me to call someone? What's your father's name? Where can I reach him?"

"No!" That woke him up. "Don't call my father. Don't call anyone..."

"Ok, don't worry. Don't worry. I'll just call the medics. Just the medics, ok? Hang in there."

I like how you say that, he thought. She bent over to speak into her communicator. Then she began to talk again, ordering him to stay awake, to stay focused, to talk... he had heard orders like that, a long time ago, but he liked her better. Her hair was nice. But as much as he wanted to please her, the darkness was too big, and warm and good, and he had to go there...

He woke up in a white room. No one was there, no one came for a long time, and he passed the time looking out of the window at a single bare branch. He was content. He realised this was partly because he was still groggy from the loss of blood, and probably also from the drugs they'd given him. But there was also something else. No epiphany, no bright light, no big meaning to his life. But there was a something where there had been a nothing before. He remembered her hair brushing against his cheek, her voice pulling him out and up and forward. And it was a good feeling.

A woman with a bored face came in.

"You're awake."

"Yes."

"How are you feeling."

It was not a question.

"I'm... all right. I think I can leave soon."

"Good."

She turned and left. Tom smiled and looked out of the window again. Yes. There was the branch.

He would not get drunk tonight.


End file.
